Broken Eyes in a Busy Crowd
by Temorali
Summary: Ivan Braginski was a lonely man who saw darkness and corruption in everyone. Yao Wang believed he could never be anyone of worth or mean anything to anyone. But when these two broken souls cross paths, they'll both realize that there may be something more to life than they've come to believe. Russia x China Modern AU, human names used.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**Ivan**

Ivan Braginski was alone.

It was a fact that he had accepted long ago. As a child, little Ivan had endlessly wondered and mourned over his apparent inability to make friends. As a grown man, however, he had accepted this as a simple truth and was no longer bothered by the prospect. For whatever reason, people didn't like him, and that was that.

When the tall, blonde haired Russian got out of bed that morning, he had met the day with the same peaceful resignation that he did all the others. He would go to college, go to work, and then return home, doing things of various importance for a small while before finally retiring to his bed until the crack of dawn awoke him once more. Surprisingly, it wasn't that bad. It was consistent, familiar, and even though he had no one to talk to as a friend, painless. After all, watching the interactions between others was sufficient enough. People were interesting, too- he had never entirely understood how the human social structure worked, having been outside if all his life. Observing people was like learning the way his world spun. He'd been watching from the outside in for so long now, in fact, that Ivan had gotten frighteningly accurate at reading people. He could see past their false pretenses and deep into their true motives, as if they were naught but a thin sheet of glass.

_All he ever wanted was your money,_ he'd predict, or _she is only using you so she can make her ex-boyfriend jealous._ For a while, it was like a game; Ivan would figure out why one person would cozy up to another, then would wait and see if he was right.

It was sickening how many times he was correct.

That was most likely part of the reason Ivan was able to accept not having people he was close to, he often mused. The relationships he had observed between other people were always fake. Very few people truly cared about one another. Very few insects in this busy little ant hill would associate with another for anything less than their own personal gain.

_Who would want a friend if they knew he or she was only using you as another rung in their ladder to success?_

Not Ivan.

He had stopped participating in this game years ago.

The Russian had been alone from the very beginning, so it was only natural for him to be alone now.

And you know what?

He liked it that way.

* * *

><p><em>The author's notes aren't going to be that long, don't worry!<em>

_So these first two chapters are rather short, I'm aware, but they'll get bigger later. Think of these as little intro-chapters._

_Also, this is a fanfiction written back and forth between my little sister and I. Every chapter will change the point of view, unless it seems unnecessary or the like. I'm writing Ivan (Russia), and she's writing Yao (China)._

_DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia. Wish I did, but such is life._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Yao**

He had never been anything special; he'd realized that a long time ago.

He was a young man of Chinese heritage, by the name of Yao Wang (or Wang Yao, in the Chinese order). With dark eyes and dark hair-tied into a ponytail, as always-Yao looked like the perfect image of a Chinaman. The perfect image, maybe, but surely not perfect in any other aspects.

He'd used to pride himself as the perfect older brother. His parents were long gone; they'd died years before he'd moved out on his own. Yao, being the eldest of the family, had tried his best to raise his seven siblings right-but they were independent people, and wouldn't listen to anything he'd said. It took him a long time to accept that he wasn't a good enough brother, but he'd felt more than worthless when he had. They didn't need him, never had. That was just how it was.

Then he'd turned to painting. It got everything out in the open for him. Art couldn't lie, like he'd lied to himself all those years-like his siblings had lied to him, when they'd called him an awesome brother. He painted abstracts, scenery, animals, and people. He honed his skills for a long time, making it his goal to get into a real art showing-or maybe even an art gallery, or something. He wanted to prove he was special.

For years, Yao entered his art for consideration for galleries and showings and contests and _everything _he could think of. He'd gotten compliments, spots in small displays here and there, but whenever it really mattered, he was turned away. Eventually, he just stopped trying.

_Why bother, when you'd never be anyone important? _he thought. He never gave up painting-on the contrary, it was the only thing keeping him sane-but he no longer submitted any of his work. Instead, he worked as a cook in a small restaurant, just to keep living. He enjoyed cooking, but it had gotten dull after a few years of never-ending monotony. He still went to college, with an art major, but he held no high hopes of actually being someone.

He was Yao Wang, a cook in a backwater town where no one knew his name. He was a failure as a brother, and an embarrassment as an artist. But most of all, he was no one.

And no one was all he'd ever be.

* * *

><p><em>Hi! The main writer's little sister, here! Just want to let you know that I have ZERO experience writing Yao-kun, so you'll just have to bear with me. We cool? Good. <em>

_DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia or its characters._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Ivan**

"_Someone is out there. Perhaps nearby. Perhaps far away. Or even further. And that someone is looking for beauty, for wonder, for hope, for an idea, for love. And they aren't sure where to find it. But chances are: they aren't going to find it in a __where__, but in a __who__." – Josh James Riebock _

That day had started like all the others. The Russian man's eyes slid open as soon as the first crack of light broke through the shades and touched his face. He lay there for a few moments, staring at the window—he squinted his eyes, trying to see past the shades out towards the glowing sky behind. Upon hearing the softest hum of birdsong, Ivan stirred himself from his drowsy laziness and sat upright slowly. Messy blonde locks fell into his eyes, and he ran his fingers through them with a quiet and slightly repressed yawn.

_It's going to be another typical day_, he mused. Though his thoughts were foggy and his mind still slow, the single phrase broke through with perfect clarity.

Or, was it dull and monotonous? It may have been. That single thought always seemed to be one of Ivan's first. Sometimes it was speckled with flecks of resentment, other times, a grim indifference. Today it happened to be the latter. With an inaudible sigh, Ivan stood and dressed himself in simple clothes covered by a large beige coat. After tidying himself up, he walked to the door of his small, cold house (the heater had the inconveniency to break in the middle of winter) and fingered the cream-colored scarf hanging up by the door. He wrapped the large cloth around his neck with such a timid care, as if it would unravel on the spot if he was too rough. Then, without another moment of hesitation, he pulled it up over his mouth and nose and walked out of the door.

* * *

><p>The streets were crowded with people walking to whatever destination they were each heading. Ivan was in the midst of them, feeling slightly awkward and out of place amongst the shorter people surrounding him. They paid him no heed, however, and continued bustling about and chit-chatting and taking sips from their coffee to warm them up. The Russian's every breath was visible in the cold, biting breeze, and he pulled his scarf higher in a poor attempt to retain as much heat as possible. Someone to his right bumped into him, causing him to stumble, but the offending man paid no heed and just continued his power walk down the street. <em>Commonplace,<em> Ivan thought as he narrowed his eyes at the man's back. He didn't bother to speak out, however…it wouldn't matter in the slightest.

_It's not like anyone would change even if I said something. They don't care. They never will._

Ivan continued walking down that narrow gray street with even steps. After being jostled around more by the hurried passersby, the blonde tuned out his surroundings and left the rest to his personal subconscious autopilot. It was only after he reached his destination—the college he was currently attending—that his brain came back on and he felt the cold sinking its teeth into his entire being like a starved wolf. With renewed motivation born from instinct, Ivan increased his pace and hurried into the building.

The warmth inside provided instant relief to the Russian's shivering form, and he felt like melting there on the spot. He found a bench to his left to sit on, and he rubbed his gloved hands together in an attempt to speed up the relief. The college around him was a homely little place, well-built and comfortable, but also a bit cramped and old. The other college students often bumped into one another on accident just by walking down the hallway-and for Ivan, who towered over the majority of the student population, this was quite inconvenient. Not to mention that some doorways were really low. Which meant he had to duck. Which was also inconvenient.

Ivan pulled out a thin sheet of paper from his pocket and looked it over quickly. His first class was English, which was a necessity due to his foreign origins. He was rather fluent in English, if he said so himself, but it was still better for him to take it just in case. With a last glance at his room number, he slipped the small paper back into his pocket, gathered his things from his locker, and walked towards his room.

* * *

><p>After ducking his head to get through that annoyingly low-placed doorway, Ivan Braginski walked into a homely room that smelled faintly of heather. He took a seat next to a dark-haired man with his hair in a loose ponytail, who was lightly sketching something on a piece of paper. Ivan glanced at it for but a moment before quickly losing interest (not being able to see the drawing in question). He took out his notebook and jotted down a few things as the instructor began his lecture. He was going over some of the movements of writing that America had gone through during it's early ages. At one interval, the instructor asked, "Mr. Wang. Could you explain to me what transcendentalism is?"<p>

The man with the ponytail and the sketches next to Ivan stood up quickly. "Wo ke yi. Transcendentalism is a movement in writing that focuses on improvement of individuality over conformity and going beyond the limits of who you are, to be a better you-aru." The man spoke in an ample Chinese accent, Ivan noted to himself. And while he answered the question in perfect English, he ended his sentence with a subtle "aru", though what that meant the Russian didn't know.

"Well done, Mr. Wang. As he explained…"

Ivan found himself ignoring what the teacher was saying as he watched the Chinese man take his seat once more and quickly go back to drawing. He moved with an uncertain elegance, as if he could break out of his shell but wasn't sure if he wanted to. He scarcely paused from his sketching and didn't bother to take any notes, and for some reason Ivan couldn't make himself look away. There was something…different, about this man, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. And that annoyed him. Suddenly Wang put down his pencil turned to Ivan with an indescribable look on his face. The Russian barely had time to snap out of his musings before the man whispered to him briskly.

"Could you stop staring at me already?" Wang's eyes narrowed in what was probably annoyance. "It's distracting. And unnerving. Aru."

Ivan simply put on one of his signature tiny smiles and giggled softly. "да, I could, but I want to look at you. Can't people look at whatever they want?"

The Chinese man stared at him incredulously for a moment before puffing out his cheeks in annoyance. "No."

"Hmm?"

"No. You can't look at me. I don't want you to."

Ivan tapped his chin with his index finger in mock thought. "Well see, that's quite the predicament, because I like looking at pretty things." At the more than surprised look on Wang's face, Ivan giggled again. "But I'll do what you want this time, and I will not look at you. This makes you happy?"

Wang tried to form a sentence, but only ended up stuttering the beginnings of several statements before turning back to drawing with a frustrated huff. Ivan simply smiled to himself as he pretended to pay attention to his instructor until class ended.

And that very same night, as Ivan lay in his bed, with thoughts of a strange Chinese man flitting about his mind, he couldn't help but think that today hadn't been as typical as he first thought.

* * *

><p><em>Wo ke yi (Chinese): I can<em>

_да (phon. "da")_ _Russian: yeah_

_Sorry for the wait! I'm a little bad at updating, but my sister is on this, so expect chapter 4 soon! Thanks for waiting!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Yao**

"_To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."  
>— Oscar Wilde<em>

"Well see, that's quite the predicament, because I like looking at pretty things."

Yao was speechless. He didn't even know this man's name, and yet he said such a thing! Yao was shocked, to say the least.

The stranger giggled. "But I'll do what you want this time, and I will not look at you. This makes you happy?" Yao tried to say something, but couldn't get a clear word out. Instead, he just huffed and turned back to his sketching.

It was a drawing of a hummingbird landing on an amaryllis flower. The sketch was coming along well, but mistakes were evident everywhere. A line out of place. Proportions a little off. A patch shaded darker than the rest. Lines crossing where they weren't supposed to. Something that just didn't look as well as it could have. They frustrated him to no end, the flaws. They were what defined him as a person, as a failure.

And he hated it.

Walking home from his late-night restaurant job, Yao pondered over the day's events. He'd failed yet again to successfully finish a single art piece, something that had become increasingly normal as time went on. He'd met a strange, violet-eyed giant who had flirted with him for seemingly no reason. Certainly, that was an odd occurrence, but it didn't bother him much. The moment was past. All was said and done.

Finally, he found his apartment building-with his meager earnings he hadn't been able to afford a house or a dorm in his college-and slowly made his way up the stairs to his floor. The warmth of the place was a blessing, as the night air had been beyond frigid. It didn't help that he didn't have very thick coats. He spent most of his money on art supplies.

He moved across the hall to his apartment, number 206. He reached into his schoolbag, fumbling for his keys. Which he promptly dropped when he found them. Cursing under his breath, he bent and picked them up. He could already feel stress bearing down on him. Dropping his keys certainly did _not _help with that, no matter how trivial a thing it might have been.

So he did as he always did. He unlocked his door, shut it softly behind him, threw his bag on the nearest table, gathered his supplies, and _painted_. He poured his emotions out on the canvas, shoved all his frustration and anger and disappointment out of his body and into his brush. Painting was a release for him. He didn't care how it turned out-he trashed most of these artworks the moment he was done with them-it only mattered that he got his feelings out. Painting was what kept Yao living. He wouldn't have been able to survive without it.

The brush moved on its own, sending color streaming across the formerly blank image. He felt alive. He felt free. When he painted, he lived without worry. He pushed out all his fury onto the canvas. Then, his depression. It went on, each stroke mirroring his own soul. Finally, when his arm tired and his movements slowed, he stepped back to look at his work.

It was a new subject, to him. He hadn't even realized what he'd been painting before. It was a field of heather, with flames licking up around it, threatening to swallow its beauty and leave not a single trace. In the center of the field stood a man. But not so much a man as the figure of a man. He was standing tall above the inferno and the field, painted an odd shade of violet. He looked strong, dominating, but also despairing. Like a king, watching his castle fall to pieces.

Yao knew immediately he would not be throwing this one out.

So he sat back down on his "art stool", as he called it, and lifted the brush to the bottom right corner of the canvas. Carefully, he painted his Chinese signature there-in the same violet as the king of the heather field.

Satisfied, Yao began packing up his paints and brushes, ignoring the painting as it dried. When he was finished, he stared at the painting once more. The thought crossed his mind that this one might stand a chance in the art world, but he quickly dismissed the idea. He was done playing that game. He never won, anyway.

A strange urge came over him as his eyes took in his work, whispering instructions into his ear like he didn't already know what he was going to do. He grabbed the coat he had discarded on the couch earlier and pocketed his keys, moving straight back to the door. Of course, there was a chance the store he needed wouldn't even be open, but he knew he had to try.

The cold outside was even worse than before. Yao shivered violently, wishing he had thought to wear his gloves. But it was too late, and he was already well on his way to the shopping district of town. Yet again, his poor income denied him a luxury-transportation, this time.

With a smile, he thought, _'Maybe my painting will be done drying by the time I return.' _Then, _'I should probably think of a title...'_ There were obvious names for the work, of course, that anyone could think of if given a few minutes. But Yao didn't want one of those. That painting reflected his own bleeding heart, so he wanted it to have a title that fit such emotion.

Turning the corner, he saw just the shop he was looking for-blessedly still in business at such an hour. The door opened with a ring of the doorbell, hanging above like in some old fashioned movie. After wandering the aisles for a few minutes, he found what he wanted. Picking it up carefully, he set it down in the basket he'd gotten at the entrance. The store clerk seemed confused by his presence-it was almost midnight in early winter, after all-but didn't deny his purchase.

He then did something that surprised even him. He shrugged off his coat, laying it over the basket. The clerk said he could keep it for an extra five dollars, an offer which he had gratefully agreed to.

Wearing only a thin sweater and jeans, he walked out of the building.

The cold bit into him the moment he stepped outside, slicing through his not-really-winter-ready clothing like a dozen knives. He wanted to just run back into the store, but he knew he had to get back home,

_'Honestly, I'll be lucky if I don't get hypothermia by the end of this,' _he mentally grumbled, a frown cutting across his face. The freezing wind hit him hard, but he pushed on. It was about a half-mile walk to his apartment. _'I am so going to get frostbite...'_

His feet ached from the travel, his face burned from the wind, his body shook from the cold. But for some reason, he wouldn't take the coat from the basket. Yao didn't even know why, himself. He just felt like he had to do this. Like his own life depended on the safety of what he carried.

By the time he finally got back to his building, he was numb from the neck down. His face still hurt from being completely unprotected in the harsh weather. So at that moment, the door to the cheap apartment building looked like the gateway to Heaven in Yao's eyes. He dashed inside, energy renewed at the thought of warmth and shelter.

Not stopping to savor the newfound heat-though it was pure bliss-he dashed up the stairs to apartment 206, unlocking the door for the second time that day. The first thing he did was put his coat back on, for extra help warming back up, and then he removed his precious cargo from the basket. Gingerly, he set it back down on the windowsill next to his latest painting, before backing up to gaze upon it properly.

In the dead of night, in early winter, Yao Wang walked a full mile out in the biting wind and bitter cold to buy a single potted plant. Violet heather, not yet in bloom.

* * *

><p><em>Hey, it's me again! Sorry for the shortness of these chapters, I'm kinda bad at writing them long. <em>

_So here we have Yao, the struggling artist, venting his frustrations on the canvas. Which, oddly enough, de-stressed me at the same time. __I like writing Yao this way, since I can draw off of a lot of my own experiences with stress, and that makes me feel more connected to the story as a whole. And don't you dare tell me none of you haven't gotten really mad when you drop a little thing in the hallway. It happens, people. It's called really stressful life + minor stressor = I'm done with this can you seriously just stop. Happens to me all the time, I'm sure it happens to you. Don't lie._

_Anywho, I'm pretty sure you're noticing a theme by now. Google it if you're confused. Also, five points to whoever knows who/what the king of the heather field represents. An extra five points to whoever gets what the violet's all about. HINT: It's not rocket science._

_Also, Yao's apartment number has a mean__ing behind it. Look up China's history. It's in there somewhere._

_Ciao! I'll keep badgering Tem to update, don't you worry!_

~_K-the-Robin-Lord (AKA Temorali's little sis)_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Ivan**

_"I'm no ocean, but no one knows all that lies beneath me." — Josh James Riebock_

For the next few days, Ivan found himself trying to spend as much time near the Chinese man from earlier. His natural curiosity got the better of him, and he knew it. There was something…_off_…about this Wang person, and Ivan felt obligated to find out exactly what it was. He considered himself nothing short of an expert when it came to reading other people, so the existence of someone who was an enigma disturbed him.

However, despite his efforts, Ivan was unable to discern much about the Chinaman. It was vexing, to say the least, but it was also becoming a little interesting. It was a challenge, and Ivan felt a stirring in his very being, a spark of fire flickering to life despite having been smothered. It was tiny, still, but it was there. There was something there. _Actually there._

Ivan looked up to the gray sky above him from his park bench. This particular bench in this particular park was his favorite place in all the world, where he could think and be by himself. It didn't matter what time of year it was or what the weather was like, he'd always make the trip when he needed. A vicious gust of cold air struck against him and whipped his hair madly about his face, but the Russian didn't seem to notice. Violet eyes stared up at lonely skies, and somehow, he found the corner of his mouth barely twitching into a poorly executed one-sided smile as he released an almost inaudible sigh. Really, what was with him lately? In just less than a week he's become completely absorbed in the life of a man he just met, a man whose life he knew nothing of. It didn't matter where he was, or what he was doing- everywhere Ivan went, thoughts of the curious little Wang plagued him. It was rather odd, and just thinking about it left the Russian feeling drained. Ivan allowed his eyes to slowly close as he let his head rest upon his own shoulder, then felt himself drift to sleep despite the freezing wind.

…

"Mister?"

Ivan awoke not an hour later to a tugging on his coat sleeve. His eyes fell lazily upon a small girl with pigtails and bright green eyes. Her tiny hands gripped his arm, and for a moment he couldn't help but acknowledge how delicate she looked. It had been a long time, a very long time, since he had talked to a child. Not since he was one himself, probably.

Noticing she had the giant's attention, the little girl smiled and bounced a little. "Yay, you're alive! You looked dead, Mister, but you weren't really dead, right?"

Ivan chuckled a little and resituated himself, leaning forward so their faces were closer and they could hear each other over the wind. He gave one of his small smiles, which were usually frightening (or so he'd been told). But this time, there was a certain softness in his eyes that set the child quickly at ease. "No, little one, I was just sleeping."

The little girl tilted her head to the side and put on an adorable pout. "But, people don't sleep outside in the winter, right? Won't you get sick?"

Ivan's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he shook his head. "I'm used to the cold, so I won't get sick."

The little girl was obviously confused. She blinked her pretty green eyes a few times, before sitting on the bench beside him. She kicked her feet back and forth as she craned her neck to look up at the Russian's face. "My mommy and daddy always tell me not to stay outside too long, or else I'll feel icky. Do you feel icky? Where are your mommy and daddy? Are they going to get mad at you for being outside?"

Ivan realized that he could not give any answers to these questions, that his smile would fail if he tried, so he simply settled for asking a question of his own. "Where are _your_ parents, little one?"

The girl hummed in thought, her legs still kicking. "They're waiting for me at the car. I was supposed to go home, but I had to make sure you weren't dead first." She fixed Ivan with a wide-eyed gaze that gave off a hint that she still somehow doubted that he was, in fact, alive.

"Well," Ivan began, taking the child's tiny hand in his gently, "you should get back to your family, да? Here, let me walk you there."

The little girl giggled as she grasped the much larger hand and led him to a small blue car parked on the side of the road. Two adults- her parents, most likely- were looking around worriedly. When the mother caught sight of her daughter, she ran, and Ivan let go of the child's hand as she ran to meet her. The parents fussed over their girl, scolding her for walking off like that, to not do it again, but explained that they were worried when she had disappeared. Ivan watched the scene unfold with a guarded expression. Something akin to sadness pricked at his heart, but he forcefully pushed it away.

The mother stood up, seeming to just now have noticed the Russian standing some ways away. She set him a thankful look, and then turned away with her daughter and husband in tow, getting in the car and finally leaving. Ivan watched the car as it faded away into the distance until there was no sight of the blue vehicle left. When Ivan finally moved, it was to pull out his phone and look at the time. 6:09. It was getting late, and he still had a ways to walk to get home. With a resigned sigh, he began walking, head hunched between his shoulders and his scarf billowing out into the wind behind him.

…

Ivan nearly dashed to his front door and hurried inside, slamming it shut. There was no rush of warmth to greet him (he _really_ needed to remember to get that stupid heater fixed) but there was, at the very least, no wind to bite at his flesh. He didn't bother to remove anything but his boots before making his way to his kitchen to scrounge up a meal, rubbing his gloved hands together quickly to warm them up. He went to the nearest cabinet and opened it, only to frown when he saw nothing edible within. He checked cabinet after cabinet only to find the same result in each one, so with a frustrated huff Ivan realized he'd have to call in dinner tonight.

After little thought, he ended up ordering Chinese.

* * *

><p><em>Alright, I'm very sorry for being late with updating again! I got stuck writing this chapter, but I just started over and it turned out okay. I think.<em>

_I promise Ivan and Yao will start interacting soon, but these last two chapters have been necessary for character development. And everything about Ivan's family will be explained in due time, don't worry!_

_I hope everyone who read enjoys!_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Yao**

"_It may be unfair, but what happens in a few days, sometimes even a single day, can change the course of a whole lifetime..."  
>― Khaled Hosseini<em>

It had been almost a week since Yao had gone out and bought that heather plant and his cold from then had yet to subside.

He'd also noticed that he seemed to be an object of interest for a certain violet eyed giant.

The strange man had been staring at him almost nonstop since they'd met, for no apparent reason other than some weird interest. Yao was actually becoming concerned he had a stalker issue on his hands. On the other hand, he found the giant rather interesting himself, though he wasn't sure he wanted to talk to the giant man-he really was terrifying!

Still, there was something about the stranger...Yao felt he at least had to learn why he kept staring at him. But he wasn't that good with confrontation after... No. He wouldn't think of that. That was behind him now. He had moved on.

But that didn't change his reluctance to confront the stranger.

He headed to his job with tired feet. He sniffed loudly. "Why did I have to buy that plant-aru?" he complained to himself. "Why didn't I wait until morning? Better yet, why didn't I wait until summer?"

Upon arriving at the restaurant, Yao pushed open the doors and walked inside.

His boss approached him when he entered. "Ah, Wang. You're on delivery today," he instructed, before heading back to the kitchens to talk to the chefs. Yao sighed. He'd been on delivery since he got sick-which made sense; who would want an ill cook?-and it had been much more boring than cooking, though even that got dull. At least he had the delivery van, so he wouldn't be on his feet.

There weren't even any orders at first-their restaurant wasn't that popular. Yao just had to sit there, bored out of his mind, and try not to fall asleep. But finally, after what felt like forever, he got one order to be delivered.

He took the package from the cook, who handed him the address. It didn't take long to reach the delivery van, and from there it was hardly ten minutes until he reached the address.

It was a small house, with no ornamentation. Likely owned by someone who didn't care much for appearances and had barely enough money to afford anything more than an apartment. But that was still more than Yao had. He stepped up to the door, and then pushed the button for the doorbell. It was a basic, unchanging sound. Almost solemn.

When he heard the footsteps approaching from the house, he did not expect who came to greet him.

The violet eyed man opened the door and they both stared at each other in shock. The giant was the first to speak.

"Wang, is it? It is quite a coincidence seeing you here!" he said with a sinister-looking smile. Yao swallowed nervously, and then held out the package.

"I'm here to deliver," he stated when he found his voice. "You _did _order Chinese not too long ago, didn't you-aru?"

"да," he replied, towering over the shorter Asian. "Business must be slow at your place if you deliver so quickly."

"Tell me about it-aru," Yao huffed. "So that will be $10.50," he held out the package again, "I'd prefer to take cash, if you don't mind-aru."

"Not at all!" The half-stranger pulled out his wallet, taking out a ten dollar bill and two quarters. "Here you go, with exact change." He handed the money to Yao, who gave him his order.

"I'll be going then," he said, turning to leave.

"Are you sure you would not like to stay for a little?" the violet eyed giant suggested. "You must be cold."

While Yao couldn't deny he was freezing-which did nothing to relieve him of his cold-he had a job to (hopefully) do and he didn't really want to have to sit down with the man who was basically stalking him. But the prospect of warmth was very tempting...

Before he could control himself, he was already walking inside the small house.

"I could stay for a minute or two-aru. Thank you," Yao answered him when he entered. The giant's home wasn't very warm, and he was starting to consider leaving. But then the strange man flashed him another smile, and shoved a blanket in his face.

Sold.

At a gesture from the half-stranger, Yao sat down on the couch and huddled up in the blanket, savoring every bit of warmth it gave him. The man sat down opposite of him, then instead of eating what he had been brought, he spoke.

"So, Wang," he started. "You are Chinese, да?"

"Shí de," Yao answered immediately, then blushed as he realized his mistake. "Sorry-aru. I meant yes. I was born in China, and I haven't completely switched over to English yet."

Strangely, the other nodded. "да, I have similar problems. I am from Russia, you see."

Yao watched him warily. Why was this man talking to him so much? Why did he invite a half-stranger into his own home?

Still, Yao felt compelled to ask, "What is your name-aru? I didn't catch it earlier."

"Oh!" the Russian smacked his palm lightly against his head. "I forgot. I am Ivan Braginski. You may call me Ivan."

"Well then, Ivan," Yao pulled the blanket closer about him, "I think we should be formally introduced-aru. I am Wang Yao-er, that is...Yao Wang-aru. That is how Europeans and Americans order it, I think." The Asian plastered on a smile of his own. "It is nice to meet you."

"And you, Yao," Ivan mimicked the gesture. "I have seen you draw before, да? Do you enjoy drawing?"

Yao stiffened. This man was getting-though unintentionally, he was sure-very personal. In an attempt to brush off the question, he answered, "I draw often-aru. It is my college major."

Then, he changed the subject. "So-aru...what is it you wish to do? What kind of job?"

The Russian leaned back in his chair. "I don't know, actually. I've never had much ambition. My older sister always said that was a problem of mine-I never knew what I wanted to do with my life."

"Oh."

"But it isn't an issue!" Ivan waved his hand dismissively. "I am content as I am."

"That is good-aru," Yao nodded. "That you are content, I mean."

The Asian glanced at his watch. "Sorry-aru! I have to run, my boss is probably wondering where I am!" He stood, removing the blanket from his shoulders reluctantly. "I'll see you tomorrow-aru!"

Opening the door, he was assaulted by the biting wind, but he pushed through anyway. He couldn't afford to be late, or he might get his skimped on his pay. Which would highly unfortunate, considering he was already poor.

"Goodbye, Yao!" he hear Ivan say when he was already outside. "It was nice talking to you!"

Yao didn't reply, instead climbing into the delivery van and driving off. Once on the road, he took the time to think about strange Ivan Braginski. The Russian giant seemed friendly, but was very scary at the same time. His interest in the man only grew-Ivan was very mysterious and obviously had quite a few secrets-and he thought that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to get to know him. Even if he was a sort of stalker.

The Chinese man's half-formed smile fell, however, when he remembered his brothers and sisters. They had pretended to like him, to look up to him, even on occasion to respect him. But they had been liars. All of them.

Ivan Braginski was probably no different.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Ivan**

"_I was lonely. I felt it deeply and permanently, that this state of being on my own might never disappear. But I welcomed the loneliness." ―__ Rachel Sontag__,__House Rules_

"That is good-aru," Yao nodded. "That you are content, I mean."

Ivan wasn't sure exactly how to respond to that, because he _wasn't_ content, no matter how often he told himself he was. Then again, having the little Chinaman show up at his doorstep was more than he'd expected from such a dreary day, and he certainly didn't want to scare him off with his whole life story. And seeing the brown-haired man on _his_ couch, in _his_ living room, right in front of him, made Ivan content in his own right. He was just about to open his mouth to continue the conversation when the smaller man looked at his watch and jumped a little.

"Sorry-aru! I have to run, my boss is probably wondering where I am!"

Ivan felt a pang of disappointment as he watched his guest shrug off the blanket that had been draped over his small frame and headed towards the door. But when he added, "I'll see you tomorrow-aru!" Ivan couldn't help but smile.

He moved slowly towards his doorway and watched the Chinese man fight past the wind and get into his truck. At the last second, Ivan called out, "Goodbye, Yao! It was nice talking to you!"

He barely saw Yao Wang respond, and for the second time that day, Ivan found himself standing there, by himself, watching as a vehicle drove away and out of his sights. He didn't even notice the cold nipping at his fingers as he stood in his doorway for who knows how long. Eventually, he stepped back indoors, and latched the door with a soft 'click'. Ivan stared at the back of his door for a few moments before realizing with a start that his ordered meal was probably cold already. He grabbed the chopsticks and fumbled with them for a few seconds before settling on an awkward grip, but one that got the job done. It was hardly surprising to find that his dinner was relatively cold. However, there was the tiniest hint of warmth still trapped inside, and to that, Ivan smiled.

…

"Yao-Yao!"

Yao Wang spun around from his school locker and fixed Ivan with a mixed look of surprise, relief, and also a hint of fear. "Aiyaaah! D-Don't sneak up on people like that, Ivan! You scared me!"

Ivan tilted his head to the side slightly, closed his eyes, gave a little smile, and giggled. "Awww, I didn't mean to! But I saw Yao-Yao walking alone and I wanted to say hi!"

Yao replied with only a hard, unreadable stare.

One which made Ivan fidget uncomfortably. "So, uhm…привет?"

Yao sighed and shook his head, but Ivan thought he saw the corner of his mouth quirk up in what was probably supposed to be a smile. "Nín hǎo, Ivan."

Taking that as clearance to continue, Ivan moved beside Yao as he walked through the hallway, probably on the way to his next class. "So, Yao, I did not know you worked at a restaurant."

Yao's expression shifted just the tiniest bit. "I do-aru."

"Do you enjoy it?"

The Chinaman seemed to contemplate the idea, and made a quiet "mmmmh," sound as he thought it over. Eventually he just shrugged. "It isn't so bad. Although I'm not normally the delivery man-aru. I'm one of the cooks there."

Ivan blinked and tilted his head curiously. "Is that so? But you were the delivery man yesterday, да? Why is that?"

Yao scrunched up his nose in distaste and stifled a cough. "Because I'm sick. I can't handle the food if I'm sick-aru."

Ivan was just about to respond when Yao stopped walking. The Russian man turned around to see Yao hesitating near a doorway, watching him with that frustratingly unreadable expression. His body language gave away that he was nervous, however, and Ivan gave him a curious look.

"This is my next classroom-aru. I've, ah…got to take my seat."

Ivan wasn't entirely sure why he felt sad at that moment, and his mind rewound to yesterday as he had watched as Yao drove away in that Chinese delivery truck. This was kind of the same thing, but it was silly, wasn't it? So Ivan forced a goofy smile onto his face and held up a hand in a motionless wave. "да, sure. I'll see you later then, Yao-Yao!" And he walked away, and it was as simple as that.

…

Ivan went the rest of the day without seeing the Chinese man again, and while that disappointed him a little, he was quick to remind himself that this Yao was practically a total stranger to him and he shouldn't be so concerned with getting that close to him. After all, he was human- and to this day, not a single human being had interacted with him without wanting something for themselves. Then again, Ivan had been the one instigating any and all conversation, but…still.

The Russian made a quick stop at the grocery store to restock on cheap food and vodka (he could hardly believe he had allowed himself to run out of his precious drink) and paid the total from his meager wallet. He had almost considered "forgetting" to buy food so he could order Chinese again to see Yao, but that probably wouldn't go over well with the little Asian, and Ivan didn't want to make him uncomfortable. After all, Ivan recognized that he was a very off-putting guy- many of the tiniest things he did, other people found scary or unnerving. Ivan had never really understood, but he used it when necessary. Now, however, part of him wished he could stop. He wished he wasn't scary…

…But then, he blamed his inherent scariness on a creepy younger sister, a tear-fountain of an older sister, and the two adults he just so happened to call his parents.

And the people in his community.

And the people in this world. Them too.

Ivan stepped outside with his grocery bags wrapped around his arms and instantly shuddered and hid as far as he could into his scarf. The air was frigid, far colder than it had been the rest of the week. With a hurried pace born from desperation, Ivan ran home. When he got to the door, he burst inside, threw his morsels of food into their respective cabinets, then plopped down on the couch and wrapped himself in the nearest blanket. With a start, he realized it was the same one that Yao had used yesterday, though he wasn't sure why the thought had his heartbeat speeding up. Eager to entertain his mind and get him away from these confusing feelings, he flipped on the TV to some random news channel, letting the dimly-lit screen and the pointless words drown him out of his thoughts. Eventually, the same TV lulled him to sleep, and Ivan lay on his couch, curled up in a beige scarf and a blanket that reminded him of Yao Wang.

* * *

><p><em>привет (phon. "privet") Russian: "Hi"<em>

_Nín hǎo (Chinese): "Hello"_

_да (phon. "da") Russian: yeah_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**Yao**

_"Reality continues to ruin my life."  
>― Bill Watterson<em>

Not really paying attention in class-as usual, sadly-Yao let his mind wander as he sketched. Strangely, his thoughts fell on Ivan. Again.

Yao had to forcefully remind himself that the Russian was basically a stranger, really imposing, and probably just talking to him out of pity. _'Although...he doesn't know me well at all. Maybe he's just curious?' _Yao's pencil stopped moving as he pondered this. Then, he shook his head. Whether or not that man knew him wasn't the issue. Yao knew he was a generally pitiful person, and he was also so pathetically uninteresting there was no reason for anyone to really want to get to know him better unless they were forced to live with him.

Dismissing these thoughts, Yao returned to his sketching, working on it until the end of class.

...

Back at his apartment, Yao sank back in his torn old chair to stare at his stress-art from not so long ago. It hung somewhat dismally on the wall, the field king looking down on him with nonexistent eyes. The piece remained untitled.

For every night since he painted it, Yao had gone through the same routine. Get home-late-eat a small dinner-if he ate at all-sit down, and think. He'd dwell on that painting's title for hours, until he finally looked at the time and went to sleep.

This night was slightly different in a big way.

He'd just been standing to check on his heather plant when he heard a knock on his apartment door. _No one _came to his apartment.

Yao stood, then cracked open his door.

He most certainly did _not _expect to see _him_ standing outside it.

"Wh-what are you doing here-aru?" Yao asked, trying to wrap his mind around what was happening.

The other frowned, then shrugged. "I wanted to see how you were doing." He said it, in his heavily accented voice, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Yao's hands-and heart-clenched involuntarily.

"You never visit-aru...so...why now?" he struggled to find words in his shock.

"I have not seen you in years, Yao. Not since you moved away."

"But...that-that was in China-and you went to-but this is America...aru..." Yao trailed off, his rambling energy defeated by the complete realization that _he _was there, at his door, talking to him. In America.

The other nodded. "I moved to America recently, in a different state than you, though. Then I heard from Mei that you were here, and I thought I should visit you."

Yao gaped at him. "But you...you said..."

At this, he looked away, but answered, "Regardless, it just seemed right that I come visit you while I am in the country. But I am not here to apologize, if that is what you were expecting."

"Then go."

"_Nani?_"

"Just go-aru!" Yao snapped, losing control of his temper. "You said it yourself-you are not my little brother anymore! So there's no reason for you to be here! We are not family!"

He seemed appalled, but maintained his even tone of voice. "I thought you would appreciate this. I guess I was wrong."

"Shí de, you _were-aru! _You don't know what I went through since that day! You don't know the complete _hell _that had been my life since we last saw each other! And now-now you have the nerve to come to _my _home and _pretend _you actually wanted to see me when we both know you don't and then you say-to my face-that you still, in essence, hate me-aru! Why did you even come then, _Kiku?!_" Yao shouted, spitting out the name like poison.

Kiku stayed calm, somehow, and replied, "Mei and the others told me it would be for the best."

"_Well they were wrong._" Yao slammed the door in his face, not giving him a chance to reply, and slumped tiredly against the door. He hadn't seen Kiku in years, and still he felt the pain with perfect clarity.

Then Yao found he couldn't hold it in anymore.

A single tear fell from each of his closed eyes. Followed by another. And another. Before long, there was no way to control it, no way to stop the waterfall of tears streaming down his face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried like this. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried at all. Somewhere along the line, he'd just given up crying. He'd realized it was pointless, and it wouldn't bring back all that he had lost. It couldn't make him more than he was meant to be.

So what was the point?

His shoulders trembled violently as a choked sob forced its way from his throat. He hugged his knees to his chest, burying his tear-streaked face in his arms.

Yes, what was the point?

It was the same thing every day, the same repeated routine. He got up, went to school, went to work, came home, went to sleep, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. _Repeat. _Always repeating, the cycle changing only a little each day, and each change only there to cause him more pain. What was the point of it all? What was the point of living?

It wasn't like he was going to kill himself or anything-he knew he could never bring himself to do that-but a voice in his head was always whispering, "Why do you even bother going on?" There was no purpose to his existence at all, he only served to take up space in the world. So why keep replaying the same old scene? Why keep going through the motions, pretending not to be dead when that's all he really was? Why not just give up, just stop trying? Why not just sit down and wait for Death to walk by and take him away? Why not just die so he could finally be alive?

But no, he could never do such a thing to himself. He was a coward, and he knew it.

Before Yao even realized it, tears were no longer falling from his eyes and the grief in his heart was replaced by a red hot anger that boiled in the pit of his stomach and reached up with burning claws to constrict his heart and lungs until he couldn't breathe, couldn't feel.

How dare his brother come back after everything without so much as an apology?

How dare he remind Yao of everything he was not and could never be?

Yap stood and walked in furious silence to his windowsill, glaring down at his still-dead heather with an unimaginably deep feeling of loathing and betrayal that even he did not understand. Still, he took the plant in his hand, holding it so tightly it looked as though the pot might break. Yao seriously debated opening his window and just throwing the hideous, traitorous thing out of his apartment to be rid of it forever.

But then he felt a superior presence just outside his range of vision. He turned his gaze up and to the left, his dark eyes landing on the violet king of the heather field, whose undefined face remained silent and impassive, looking down at him from his place on the wall.

Yao sighed, his anger deflated at the sight of that condescending form. He returned the plant to its place, then fell to his knees on the apartment floor.

For years, he hadn't felt such real emotions as he had today. All he'd known for so long was minor frustration, minor sorrow. Nothing like what had just occurred.

He'd just felt pure, strong, all-consuming emotion. That was supposed to be good. It was supposed to prove something-what, that he was human?-or show him something or...or..._something_.

So why was it that all it did was hurt?

...

Yao awoke in the morning sprawled out across the floor and still wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing the day before.

He sat upright, wincing at the crick in his back he'd obviously gotten from sleeping on the floor-why had he done that again?-and the burning of his throat that he was certain had to do with his cold.

A wonderful start to the day.

The cobwebs in his mind slowly clearing away, he stood, making his way to the pathetically small corner he called a kitchen and removing a water bottle from his miniature fridge. The fresh, cold liquid soothed his throat as he gulped it down. He held back a cough, knowing it would bring the pain back immediately.

Then, slowly, he remembered the night before, a scowl forming on his face as he recalled the meeting he'd had with his brother-no, just Kiku. That man was not his brother anymore. He'd said so himself.

Yao had been so exhausted once he'd finally calmed down, he had just fallen asleep where he lay. It didn't matter much, anyway. Except...

As an afterthought, he glanced down at his watch, which remained fastened on his wrist from the day before. 9:32 a.m.

"Aiyah!" he shouted in a mix of shock, exasperation, and maybe even a little fear. "I am so _beyond _late-aru!" Classes had definitely started already.

He dashed to his room, leaving his water unfinished on the kitchen counter. After throwing on a new outfit and trying in vain to brush his dark brown hair-the hairbrush was constantly catching painfully on the many tangles there-and not even bothering to tie it back in his usual ponytail, he paused only to grab his phone (not that anyone would contact him), keys, and school bag before rushing out his apartment door and down the stairs. Having not had time to button his jacket, the early winter cold cut through him like a knife.

He ran for as long as he could, but not being in very good shape, he had to stop several times to catch his breath or rest his tired legs. Eventually, he settled for speed walking-though even then the rather prominent stitch in his side was giving him grief-and after what was probably an hour he reached the college building. Yao looked back down at his watch-10:36-and was surprised to find he had been right about it being an hour. He racked his brain-what class was that again?-and eventually came up with English. Just what he needed-facing Ivan right away after meeting up with the man who had pretty much ruined his personal life, remembering how pointless his existence was, and sleeping on the floor of his apartment.

Still, he sprinted the rest of the way, bumping into countless other people as he ran-and earning more than a few curses and angry remarks-before throwing open the classroom door, panting heavily.

"I-I'm sorry...I'm late..."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**Ivan**

"_I think I fell in love with him, a little bit. Isn't that dumb? But it was like I knew him. Like he was my oldest, dearest friend…I wanted him to notice me." ― __Neil Gaiman__, __The Sandman, Vol. 8: Worlds' End_

Ivan tapped the eraser of his pencil impatiently as he thought.

Yao was currently absent from English class. Something about that was bothering him, but as with all his emotions lately, he couldn't determine _why_. All he knew was that he was growing increasingly anxious, that his foot was now beginning to tap in rhythm with his pencil, that he was nearing the point where he might just up and leave the classroom right then and there. It's not like he was paying attention anyway- he knew the subject material, and Yao was a much more pressing matter for whatever reason. Yet, just as he was about to act on that last idea, the thunderous sound of footsteps echoed through the hall and the classroom door flew open with a loud smash.

And then suddenly, there stood Yao, panting and untidy and muttering quick apologies to the instructor before being waved to his seat with a frustrated flick of the wrist. It struck Ivan that Yao hadn't tied his hair in a ponytail today as the Russian giant watched the Chinese man step closer to his side. Instead, the dark brown locks swept over his shoulders gracefully, somehow, despite the tangles that hadn't been worked out. He looked pretty tired, with bags under his eyes and an overall unkempt appearance, but what Ivan really noticed was the look in his normally quiet gaze. There was a certain coldness in Yao's dark eyes that tried to avoid looking at Ivan. Instantly Ivan knew something had happened between the time he saw the Chinese man yesterday and the previous moment when he walked through the door. Yao's expression was tired, exhausted, but strongly guarded.

It wasn't right.

"привет, Yao." Ivan greeted, watching for any reaction on Yao's part. The Chinese man fought not to meet Ivan's face, instead walking past the seated giant and taking his seat to his left. He tersely removed any materials he needed for class and arranged them out in front of him, not making any move to show he had heard the Russian speak. Ivan felt his eyebrow twitch in annoyance. Regardless, he smiled and passed some notes over to the smaller man's desk.

"Here, you can borrow my notes. I wasn't using them anyway, and you need to catch up, да?" Once again, Ivan was promptly ignored, the notes left untouched. Ivan narrowed his eyes at this, but sat back in his chair, and gave Yao what he seemed to want. Until class ended.

As soon as the bell went off, Yao was out of his seat and headed for the door. Ivan followed suit, trailing Yao until they were safely out of the classroom. He reached out and grabbed Yao's sleeve and tugged. Yao halted, then turned around and glared at Ivan through tired eyes.

"What do you want, Ivan."

It wasn't so much a question as it was an accusation. Unfazed, Ivan grinned and started walking in a different direction, his grip on Yao's arm all but forcing the other to follow. Before Yao could protest, Ivan spoke. "Come on, Yao-Yao! Let's play hooky for today. School is boring anyway." Ivan didn't look back as he walked. "And besides, you seem to need a day off. So, play hooky with me!"

Yao sputtered, trying to argue and accuse and ask questions all at the same time. Once he seemed to realize Ivan wasn't going to let him get away, however, he simply yanked his arm back, shoved both hands in his pockets, and followed the larger man's footsteps broodily.

The weather outside was no more pleasant than it had been the day before. Yao sniffled as if to remind Ivan that he was still suffering from a cold, to which Ivan looked over his shoulder and stopped. Ivan's violet eyes traveled the length of Yao's hunched form for a minute before he shrugged off his beige coat, leaving him in a simple t-shirt and jeans, and passed it to Yao. The surprised Asian stared at it, unsure of what he was supposed to do.

"Here, Yao. So your cold doesn't get worse."

Yao regarded Ivan with a look of suspicion, but an oncoming gust of wind quickly made up his mind. He took the coat with a sour expression and stuck his arms through the sleeves, stopping only when he realized his arms didn't quite reach the end. Ivan giggled, and Yao shot him another glare before wrapping himself up in the coat for the warmth he desperately needed.

"Well? Where are we planning on going, Ivan?" Yao's voice dripped with acid, but Ivan once again paid no heed. He was good at that.

"Well, I was thinking we could get something to eat! I hear going out for coffee is a popular American thing to do, but if you'd rather have tea, I know this really good place."

Yao simply shrugged, trying not to make eye contact. "Fine. Whatever. Just get me out of the cold already-aru."

Ivan hummed in agreement and walked down the street with Yao in tow, for once not caring much about the cold that bit at his bare arms.

…

The herbal tea shop was a tiny little place with few customers at this time of day. Ivan didn't know it very well, seeing as tea wasn't a common drink for him, but Yao's face involuntarily lit up upon seeing the advertised teas on the sign outside. Ivan smiled, happy that he got a positive response out of his companion. That, and he looked just too adorable, wearing Ivan's coat. It practically dragged on the ground, and Yao had tripped over it more than once on their walk, but he had never made a move to take it off. Ivan figured it was only because it was freezing out and Yao really didn't fancy getting frostbite, but the sight still warmed Ivan. Realizing what he was thinking, he felt himself blush and he turned to hide his face by opening the door. A quaint little bell rung from above him, and he held the door for Yao to pass through. The smaller man did so, and Ivan watched as he paused, welcoming the warmth as it rushed back into his bones. Ivan stepped inside and closed the door, breathing in the relaxing air. Almost instantly, his coat was shoved back into his hands, Yao's previous disgruntled expression back in place.

"I don't need it, Yao. You can keep wearing it for now, if you'd like," Ivan offered, silently hoping Yao would take him up on it.

He didn't. "No. I don't need it anymore-aru. I'm not wearing it."

Slightly disappointed, Ivan took the coat out of Yao's outstretched hand, then slipped it on over his arms and wrapped it up again. Yao walked over to the counter and ordered some Chinese tea, then sat down at a nearby table with his drink without waiting for Ivan in the least. Ivan didn't know what he should have, so he simply ordered what Yao had before sitting down across from him.

"Isn't this a nice place, Yao?"

Yao looked unamused. "I guess."

Ivan sipped at his tea. It wasn't particularly great, but it was relaxing, so he didn't complain. The two sat in tense silence before Ivan spoke up.

"Are you okay, Yao?"

Yao flinched. "I'm fine. Why?"

"Because you are upset. Did something happen last night?"

Yao didn't respond for a while, simply gazing into his tea. Finally, he choked out, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Ivan watched Yao's face as he talked. It was obvious he was lying. Every little gesture, his words, his demeanor, his inability to make eye contact…something inside Ivan cracked. "Why are you lying to me, Yao? We're friends, да?"

At the word "friends", both men froze. Yao stared, wide eyed, at the Russian man who started fidgeting uncomfortably. What had he meant, _friends?_ People weren't worth befriending. They never did anything more than stab you in the back. Ivan shifted in his seat. He wanted to run, to say that he didn't mean that, that he was joking around and said whatever came out of his mouth. But all those options felt wrong somehow, so he simply sat there, awaiting Yao's response.

Yao's eyes eventually slid back to his tea, expression unreadable. Hesitantly, he asked, "Really?"

_No, no, we aren't friends, I've never had a friend, I never want a friend, people are horrible, they'll hurt me, you will too, I just know it_ – "Yes."

Yao's expression didn't change as he mused. After what seemed like an agonizing forever, Yao looked up, his emotions guarded. "Maybe I'll explain another time, Ivan. But I can't right now. Do you understand?"

Some part of Ivan did. He nodded.

Yao stood quietly, leaving an empty teacup sitting alone on the table. He looked at Ivan one more time before he turned his back. "Thanks-aru. The tea was good."

Ivan didn't know what to say. "You're welcome. Yao, you think we can do this again sometime?"

"We'll see." And those were the only words he gave before he left the café, Ivan, and an empty cup of tea.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**Yao**

_"I don't want to see anyone. I lie in the bedroom with the curtains drawn and nothingness washing over me like a sluggish wave. Whatever is happening to me is my own fault. I have done something wrong, something so huge I can't even see it, something that's drowning me." ― Margaret Atwood, Cat's Eye_

"We're friends, да?"

Those words, spoken by Ivan Braginski, rang through Yao's mind as he trekked back to his apartment. As if it wasn't enough he'd been late, Ivan had forced him to skip school-which he'd only just managed to wake up in time for-so he figured he might as well just head back home.

Rather, he didn't think he could return to school at the moment.

Friends... Yao had never really had friends. Sure, there had been his childhood playmates-everyone had those, as they weren't real friendships-but he'd never had true _friends. _Then again, Ivan had probably not meant the word as such. No one ever did, when it came to Yao.

The cold bit into him yet again, and Yao shivered profusely. He really needed to buy a thicker coat... Somewhat jealously, he remembered Ivan's coat-it had been blissfully warm, if twenty-something sizes too big for his small frame. Ivan had nice things, despite his house being tiny and sadly lacking in heating. But at least he owned a house. Yao could never afford anything like that. He poured everything he had into college and what little he had left went to food, paying his rent, and art supplies.

The thought of Ivan, of course, brought those words back to him.

_...friends..._

Yao shook his head, focusing on the return trip.

_...but I am not here to apologize, if that is what you were expecting..._

His heart ached as he remembered the visit he'd gotten from his not-brother. In all the confusion, he'd almost forgotten, but the words came back like knives to his soul.

_We are not brothers._

That was what Kiku had told him when he'd moved to Japan. It had all been out of spite, Yao knew. Kiku had always hated him.

_I don't want to see you again, Yao._

Then why had he come back? He'd said something about Mei. But why did it matter? The fact was, Kiku had come. He'd come and torn Yao's already wounded heart in two yet again.

Yao looked up to the sky, stopping in his walk. The few people on the street with him kept going, casting him strange looks or otherwise ignoring his presence completely. _'Why does it hurt so much?' _he asked the sky silently, slumping against a nearby building.

_Because you deserve no less._

The voice spoke in his head, similar to Kiku's. Of course Yao deserved the pain. He was a failure, a nobody, a nothing. He'd never done anything right and never would. He was worthless. But...

_We are friends, да?_

Ivan had not thought so. Ivan had been worried about him.

_Really?_

Ivan had been there. Ivan had wanted to know what was bothering him.

_Yes._

Yao's heart throbbed painfully in his chest as he stared up at the white, white sky. Had Ivan really meant what he'd said? Had Ivan really thought him a friend?

Shaking his head sadly, Yao reminded himself that Ivan didn't know him. Even if the violet eyed man had meant those words, he hadn't known who he was saying them to.

But if he had, what then?

Yao straightened up, his throat burning again from sickness, and resumed his walk. His life certainly hasn't improved at all in the recent weeks-to be expected-and had only become more complicated. He'd have loved to confide in Ivan, to tell him anything and everything and nothing all at once. To be allowed to fall down and have someone there to catch him (because he definitely fell down a lot, with only his own hands to push him back up). Back in that tea shop, he'd wanted nothing more than to break down and cry and tear his heart out of his chest for all the world to see-and have Ivan there to help him through it all.

Yao wasn't sure why he wanted to trust Ivan so much, wasn't sure why-if anyone-he wished it be the Russian giant by his side, but he knew he did.

And that was just the problem.

Knowing you want something, knowing it's important to you, makes it all the more unbearable not having it. Once Ivan knew him-really knew him, not just the little things Yao had told him or he'd figured out on his own-there was no way he'd want to stay.

Yao wasn't anywhere near perfect. Or even decent. Or even less than desired. He was broken, ruined, long past expired.

Who wanted a pair of dark, dead, broken eyes when they had such a large crowd to find another, better, brighter pair in?

That's when Yao realized something.

His train of thought had quickly gotten much more singular, strangely so. He'd never thought that way before. He'd always just been the "in a crowd but completely ignored by the groups" person, never "one choice of many". Why had he narrowed the options down to just him or someone else?

The answer was simple, but struck him with such force that made him feel like he'd been hit head on by a car. Or bus. No, more likely a train. He felt like he had gotten ran over by a bullet train going at full speed and aimed directly at him.

Yao stumbled as the full realization of the matter presented itself with perfect clarity. The Asian quickly caught himself and kept moving-faster this time-towards his apartment. He tried his best to ignore the thoughts swirling in his head, as well as the vicious beating of his heart.

This was wrong.

This was more than wrong.

There was no way. It had to be a lie.

He had to stop this before it went too far.

It was probably too late already. He knew that.

He couldn't face Ivan again. He had to cut himself off from the man immediately so the feeling would go away.

Yao didn't even realize he had reached his apartment building until he was dashing up the stairs to the second floor. Then he was unlocking the door to apartment 206. Shutting the door. Falling to the ground yet again in front of the all-knowing King of Heather.

"Why is this happening?" he choked out in a plea (confession) to the ever-still painting. No response. "Why can't I just live? Live the right way, even if I'm useless. Why do I have to do this to myself?"

No response.

"Why..."

He didn't cry. He was done crying.

"Why..."

It wouldn't have taken away the pain anyway.

"Why..."

He bowed his head to the violet man, his own creation, his long dark hair falling listlessly around his shoulders and in front of his face.

There was so much wrong in the throbbing of his heart. So much wrong in the heat of his face. So much wrong in that horrible emotion he refused to name.

Still the king of the heather fields was motionless, and said nothing to answer Yao. Looking up, the Asian thought he recognized the violet color from somewhere.

But that was probably his imagination.

Right?

...

The next day was, blessedly, Saturday.

Yao didn't even bother getting dressed or brushing through his still-tangled hair. Lethargy was settling in, making itself at home with the guilt and that other emotion Yao had decided to leave untitled, like a painting he either could not name or refused to name out of confusion and spite.

When his dark eyes cracked open that morning, it was only after a sleepless night.

When he got up and ate breakfast, it was only to stay "alive". He didn't really have an appetite, anyway.

When he leaned back in his ratty old armchair and stared up at his painting, pretending to search for a title, it was only to have an excuse to do nothing.

He'd given up, that was all there was to it.

Come Monday, he'd go back to school but not pay attention. He'd spare only a little effort to do his work. He'd refuse to look Ivan in the face.

Oh God, just the thought of that man... He shook his head violently, clearing his head of the thoughts before they even began. This would be much harder than he thought.

Yao glanced at his heather plant, wondering for the umpteenth time why he'd bought it in the first place. It wasn't a special plant, and he'd purchased it _way _before it should have been purchased, but he'd done so anyway. Why?

This train of thought wasn't enough, apparently, as his thoughts clicked yet again back onto Ivan Braginski. Would he hurt the violet eyed man by pushing him away? Maybe. Did Ivan need someone like him in his life? No. So it was all justified, right?

Silence.

His mind could not find an answer, though a voice in his head desperately screamed "yes".

_Yes, _it said. _This is all for the best! There's nothing to be guilty for! You're not meant to-_

He cut the voice off there, shaking. One more word and it would've been over.

Yao couldn't take it anymore, the quiet of the apartment room. He quickly turned on the TV to his one of his only free channels, the news. He let the voice of the fake-looking reporter drown out his thoughts, letting it take over for him.

He couldn't really focus on the television, but that didn't matter. All that was important was _not _thinking about...

The woman was saying something about shopping taxes. Yao turned up the volume.

* * *

><p><em>Hey, it's me again! Just wanted to say that I'm REALLY sorry if any of you think this is moving too fast. I was really hesitant to post this chapter, since you know, they just confirmed they were friends. But TemTem said it was good, so I went ahead with it anyway. :P<em>

_In any case, I've really been struggling not to turn this into a Lord-of-the-Flies-ish prose poem. THAT STUPID PAINTING ARRRGH! Like, seriously. But I'm managing, and it's turning out pretty well if I do say so myself._

_I promise to keep writing more! ~K-the-Robin-Lord_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**Ivan**

"_I don't trust anybody. Not anybody. And the more that I care about someone, the more sure I am they're going to get tired of me and take off."  
>― Rainbow Rowell, <em>_Fangirl_

Ivan stared into that dead black screen as if it would give him the answers to everything he ever wondered.

When the Russian had gotten home that night, tired in a way he couldn't explain, he had done nothing but flop down in the middle of his beaten loveseat and proceed to stare at the television. He had been such a strong mix of tired and distracted to even notice the TV wasn't even powered on. Ivan hadn't moved from his position – staring deadly at a blank screen through half-lidded eyes while sitting lazily on the couch – in what was probably a ridiculous amount of time.

None of that registered in the man's mind.

All he could think about was what happened at the café. What had he meant, calling Yao a friend? Over the years, he had called many his _comrades_; but that was merely a status, if even that. The word _friend _brought to mind an entirely different image. He and Yao, walking side by side, laughing about something that wasn't even funny. Yao, talking to him with a smile on his face, as they ate or played games or did nothing but sit around, enjoying each other's company.

The word _friend_ was a word Ivan had never used toward anyone. Granted, there were those three kids he had known as a child, but one look at the Russian had them trembling in fear. They had never thought of Ivan as a friend. The first chance they had, they all moved away or had their parents transfer them to a different school, leaving ten-year-old Ivan standing alone, watching their cars drive away.

Those three were the only people Ivan had ever grown attached to, and look where that left him.

What about Yao Wang, then? As much as he tried to convince himself, Ivan couldn't bring himself to think of the Chinaman as he thought of everyone else in this community. So far, Yao seemed to be a person without friends, who continued living without interacting with other people. Of course, Ivan could be wrong – he didn't know who Yao really was, after all. He didn't know about his family, his job, his friends, his dreams…but _God, he wanted to_. At the realization, Ivan's brow furrowed, and he clenched his fists at his sides. Ivan could no longer think of Yao as being part of this world he had come to hate. To him, Yao was different, special. And the thought scared him.

_He's going to hurt me._

Yes, Yao would leave Ivan. He would stab him in the back for nothing but his own gain.

_Like those three did._

After all, Yao was simply human. And humans didn't do anything if it didn't benefit them in any way. Ivan knew this, he had learned this on that day twelve years ago, when Raivis' car drove away, officially leaving Ivan without anyone to call a friend.

_People will leave you without a second thought, Ivan. Your parents did, remember?_

Ivan growled at the voice in his head and brought his hands up to cover his ears, as if that could stop the onslaught of poisonous words. He remembered, of course he remembered, he'd never forget. How could he? It was another of those lessons life had been all too glad to brand him with.

_They never loved you. Do you remember, little Vanechka? _

"Stop…" Ivan mumbled weakly to himself.

_Once they found out what you were, they left you in the cold and fled back to Russia without you. They didn't want to deal with you anymore. _

"Stop!"

_Yao is exactly the same way. Once he knows what you really are, he'll turn and walk away, and you know what I'll say?_

Ivan cried out as his nails dug into the flesh behind his ears. He stood up abruptly and threw the cushions aside, snarling furiously like a starved wolf. His violet glare landed on the blank television in the front of his room, and with a look that could kill, he grabbed the nearest item – which just happened to be the TV's remote – and threw it at the little box. The screen cracked, and the remote fell apart, and Ivan was left there watching.

At least the voices fell silent. Ivan suddenly felt drained, and he fell to his knees and sat on them, staring at his broken television blankly. The dead black screen stared back. Ivan's heart felt like it was burning. Deep down, he knew he was already too attached to let go, that he'd remain broken forever if he tried. How was it he had smothered that fire within him long ago? How did he get the pain to go away? He couldn't remember.

It was late into the night when Ivan finally dragged himself to bed. There was no way he could give up on Yao now, even if he knew it was only going to end badly. He'd gone and made the same mistake as ten years ago, and he was too deeply invested to get away. So he'd give Yao a chance. And when he betrayed him, well…

When Ivan fell asleep that night, only four words echoed in his mind. They said, _I told you so._

* * *

><p>Ivan walked into English class Monday morning like there was lead in his boots. He regarded everything not with his normal fake smile, but with narrowed eyes and a grimace, hidden beneath his beige scarf. He took his seat, taking barely a moment to acknowledge the fact Yao wasn't in the room. The Russian tersely sat himself and focused immediately on the sloppy handwriting on the whiteboard at the front of the class. He took out a pencil and his notebook, and was about to get to work, if a certain Chinese man hadn't walked through the door right then. Ivan perked up despite himself, and when Yao looked at him, Ivan prepared a small smile and a wave in greeting. However, one look into those broken eyes had Ivan frozen before he could even blink. Yao's brown eyes were flooding with hurt, and under Ivan's stare, he quickly turned away and headed to the other side of the room. He took a different seat than usual, near the windows and away from the Russian. Ivan watched Yao's every move, each step making his heart pang a little more. Yao avoided looking at Ivan at any cost, even when Ivan spoke to him from across the room. Eventually, Ivan returned to staring dejectedly at the blank paper in front of him. It remained blank the entire hour.<p>

When the bell rang, Ivan found himself once again following in Yao's footsteps, although the smaller Asian man seemed keener on getting away today. Nonetheless, Ivan caught up to him, and with an apprehensiveness foreign to the Russian, he reached out and tapped Yao's shoulder.

"U-Um… привет, Yao…"

Yao stopped walking, but didn't raise his eyes.

"Ivan, you don't want me to play hooky again, do you?" Yao laughed humorlessly under his breath. Ivan felt part of him weakening, and he shook his head.

"N-No, I just…wanted to say hi."

This time, Yao did not smile back and return his greeting in his native language. Instead, he nodded weakly before trying to turn away.

"Yao, wait." Yao complied, albeit hesitantly. "Yao, I'm sorry if I made you mad the other day."

When Yao failed to respond, Ivan felt himself growing increasingly nervous. He looked down at his boots, but didn't relinquish his hold on Yao's sleeve, for fear he would run away if he did. "Yao, I won't ask you to play hooky with me anymore, so just…please, don't be mad at me."

He felt strange, asking for someone's forgiveness. It had been a long time since he felt himself so opened up, and it scared him. He felt as if he were strapped to a table with his chest torn open, his heart beating for everyone to see. He wasn't used to it, he felt weak, but he held on nonetheless.

Until Yao shook his head.

Yao's mouth opened like he was going to form words, but he didn't, and instead, he shook his head side to side sadly. He removed Ivan's hand from his shoulder, and then finally looked into his eyes. Ivan felt his breath catch in his throat. Yao whispered something almost inaudibly, but Ivan caught it nonetheless. With a blink, Yao tore his gaze away and turned and walked down the school's hallway without a word. Ivan stared after him with his hand partially outstretched until he was out of sight. Slowly, as if he would break at the tiniest motion made too quickly, Ivan dropped his hand to his side and turned away. With his hands shoved in his pockets, and his scarf raised over his nose in an effort to conceal as much of his face as possible, he stepped in the opposite direction, where his next classroom waited.

_"I'm sorry, Ivan."_

* * *

><p><strong><em>Vanechka: A very informal name for Ivan. It goes something like this: (Formal) Ivan - (Informal) Vanya - (Very informal) Vanechka<em>**

_So, I really wanted to show a different side of Ivan this time. And I think this applies to Ivan in general, but, he's still kind of a child, isn't he? Though he often puts up a strong (and admittedly scary) front, he's really a lot like a lonely child whose only desire is to be loved. Since he was robbed of his innocence as a child due to such and such circumstances, a part of him never really got to grow up._

_And honestly, trying to figure Ivan out was the main reason behind proposing the start of this two-person fanfiction. By writing his character, I get to learn more about who Ivan is as a person, and I think that's really cool! _

_But anyway, I hope you enjoyed this angsty-angst-angst. The next chapter's probably going to be just as bad if not worse, but I promise it'll have a happy ending! I promise!_

_As always, Hetalia does not belong to us. It belongs solely to Himaruya Hidekaz._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

**Yao**

"_It hurts to let go...You feel like some kind of criminal for having felt, for having wanted. For having wanted to be wanted. It confuses you, because you think that your feelings were wrong and it makes you feel so small because it's so hard to keep it inside when you let it out and it doesn't come back. You're left so alone that you can't explain."  
>― Henry Rollins, The Portable Henry Rollins<em>

When Yao walked away from Ivan, it felt more like he was running away. The confused, expectant, anxious, hurt, but most of all _scared _look in Ivan's beautiful violet eyes had nearly ruined everything.

_'I can't do it anymore.'_

Yao felt like crying. He really did. Ivan had done nothing wrong. Ivan didn't deserve this.

But then again, Yao didn't deserve him either.

So he walked (ran) down that hall, abandoning the only chance for friendship he'd had in...forever. It would probably be his last, too.

_'Why, why can't I just turn off my heart? Just for a little while? Just for him?'_

Yao found he couldn't focus in any of his other classes, a fact that held no great surprise for the Chinese man. He'd be lucky if he got decent grades...

_'I'd be lucky if I were somebody.'_

There was his old thoughts, coming back to haunt him yet again. He was so tired. So unbelievably tired of it all. _'Why me?' _he wondered, _'Why is God so cruel that He always does this to me? Why...me?'_

The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. Yao stood, hefting his bag over his shoulder and exiting the classroom. He kept his eyes to the ground the whole way to his locker-he would no doubt fall apart if he even caught sight of _him_ let alone those violet, violet eyes-and even after he had reached it he didn't look up.

Yao always had been a coward.

He left the college building in a hurry, not chancing a possible meeting with that man. He remained tense the whole, hour long, trek back to his apartment and then some, like he thought his former "friend" would jump out at him at any moment. And maybe he did. And maybe that man would. If he'd been given the chance.

Normally Yao would be painting in such a situation, but he couldn't bring himself to pick up a brush. He couldn't do what he'd done only days before, and think up titles for his most recent work. He couldn't even look at it. He'd taken to covering it with a sheet, unable to bear the now almost accusatory look the heather king gave him.

Yao dragged himself into his miniscule bathroom, lifting his gaze to stare into the dusty mirror.

The face staring back at him looked foreign. Dark eyes almost black now, the face showed an expression of the purest misery. He had deep bags under his eyes, a sharp frown, and was clearly sleep deprived. His brown hair remained tangled, but had actually been tied back that day and currently rested rather sloppily over his left shoulder.

He looked so...so broken...

And he was.

_'Isn't it supposed to mean something?' _he asked the person in the mirror. _'Hurt, life, _this_... It's supposed to mean something, isn't it? There's a purpose...right?' _The other just blinked slowly. Yao could imagine his silent reply.

_It means what it means. You figure it out yourself._

He wanted to scream. He didn't want to figure it out! He couldn't...

_He probably hates you now._

"I know," Yao whispered in reply, his voice hoarse with unshed tears.

_You hurt him, you know._

"I know."

_Don't you feel guilty?_

"I do. But at least I apologized. What I'm doing is right."

_Are you so sure?_

"Yes." The mirror man nodded his agreement.

_It was right._

"It was. It had to be."

_He'll be better off without you._

"He will."

_He'll get over it._

"It's not like he really cared for me anyway."

_Yes. It's not like he cared._

"He doesn't care now, either."

_He's probably celebrating right now._

"You think?"

_He's got a lot less to worry about now. You only dragged him down._

"Yes...I'm only..."

Yao nodded again, the face in the mirror mimicking the action. With a sick sort of satisfaction, he left the room and marched over to the window. His heather plant remained dead, winter still preventing it's bloom. The sky outside was white, pure white, and snow was already beginning to fall.

"I'm only..."

He closed his eyes tiredly, listening to the dull sound of nothing and finding it to be the most comforting sound he could hear at that moment.

...

The next day, a certain violet eyed man hadn't even attempted to approach him-though Yao could sense his gaze upon him, suffocating him.

He never once returned the look.

Yao tried not to appear too tense as he took out his English notebook and scribbled down some notes, but failed horribly. The weight of the other's eyes upon him was almost too much to bear, but Yao managed. He had to. For the good of everyone.

But it hurt.

He nearly leapt from his seat when the bell rung, grabbing his things and leaving in a hurry before _he _had a chance to follow.

Not that he seemed like he was going to, anyway. There were no footsteps in pursuit, no calls for him to wait, no...anything. Yao knew he should have been glad, but there was something in the action-or lack thereof-that made his hands clench and his heart constrict painfully.

_What were you expecting, a warm welcome?_ a voice in his head sneered. _Did you think he'd just come back begging you to be friends with him again? He's not stupid, you know. He knows he's in the clear now._

_'I know,' _Yao replied silently. _'I know. This is stupid, right? I'm just being stupid. I'm done with this. He's free. I'm back to my normal, pointless life, but he's doing better.'_

_Exactly._

Yao pushed his doubts to the corner of his mind and walked on. He was on his way to his next class. No problem. No problem at all. He could do this. He didn't share any more classes with _him._ Soon, it would all be over. _He _would move on, and then life would go back to normal.

His thoughts from the previous night came back to him.

_'This is right. He's better off without me. He's probably happy he doesn't have to deal with me anymore. I'm only...'_

A fake, twisted, grim smile found its way onto his face.

_'That's right...I'm only...nobody...'_

Yao had always been a coward.

* * *

><p><em>Hello, friends! And hello, yet again, to a very depressed and angsty Yao (not that he ever left)! You know what I though while writing this? It was: "Wow. You have the WORST timing on the face of this Earth, Yao." Because really. Ivan just got through the whole "I can't stand it if he leaves me" thing and Yao goes and pulls this crap. Idiot.<em>

_Until next time! ~K-the-Robin-Lord_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

**Ivan**

"_I am lost without you. I am soulless, a drifter without a home, a solitary bird in a flight to nowhere. I am all these things, and I am nothing at all." ― Nicholas Sparks, __Message in a Bottle_

_I told you so._

Ivan's mind whispered the cruel words over and over every waking moment, as if his thoughts were ever consumed with something else, his life would end. Part of him wished it would.

The rest of the week had passed both slowly and quickly. Ivan had gone to school every day, but Yao refused to spare him even a glance, despite his constant stares. Eventually, Ivan had retreated, instead trying to focus on whatever meager schoolwork was placed in front of him. But never once had Ivan tried to speak to Yao. He couldn't stand to see those brown eyes again, to hear his voice again, speaking only words that were meant to run his heart through as if they were a sword. Because Ivan's heart was no longer frozen solid; instead, twelve years of hardening his mind and locking away his emotions had gone to waste within a few weeks. He was going to have to build himself back up from scratch.

Part of him wondered if that was even possible.

Ivan wasted away his Saturday morning guzzling down vodka in front of a broken TV, relishing the familiar burning in his throat. It wasn't enough to get him drunk – _nothing_ was _ever_ enough to get him drunk – but it was a small comfort nonetheless. The house, however, would have been unbearably cold to anyone else, but between his depression and the vodka in his throat, he didn't even seem to notice. He didn't care about getting the heater fixed, or the television fixed, or more than one loveseat for the entirety of his home. Instead, his mind remained hopelessly fixated on Yao.

Ivan wondered what he had done to make Yao hate him so much. He had thought taking Yao to a relaxing tea shop had been a good idea, since the Chinaman was so stressed from whatever it was that had happened to him. Apparently, that was a bad move, leading only to Yao wanting to push him away. Was it because he had called Yao his friend? That was the more probable answer. Yao had seemed thrown by the use of the word, and anyway, he probably didn't want to be tied down by a Russian giant with a frightening air about him. He was just like those three boys from long ago. He didn't want to be associated with Ivan, and as soon as he knew Ivan wanted to be anything more than a stranger, he left Ivan without a second thought.

_I told you so._

Ivan tilted the glass bottle back in an attempt to get more of the burning liquid into his throat. When only a drop landed on his tongue, he frowned, inspected the empty bottle, and reached for another. There were none. He wondered if there'd be more in the fridge, but there wouldn't be. He had grabbed every last bottle he saw and moved them to where he was sitting now. Ivan cast an unamused glance at the large pile of empty bottles sitting to his right, and huffed. He stood and wrapped his scarf around his face, and when he opened the door, the outside air was barely any colder than his living room was already. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he started walking to the nearest store.

After all, what else was there to do now but go and get more?

…

For some reason, Ivan's feet led him not to a liquor store, but to that herbal tea shop from before. Oblivious to the cold, Ivan simply stood in the middle of the sidewalk and stared up at the homely sign in surprise. This place was about as far as one could get from vodka, but instead of staring at the door dumbfounded for the next twenty minutes, he walked inside.

Once again, the tiny ring of the bell greeted him, as did a rush of warmth that spread quickly through Ivan's numb fingers. He hadn't even realized they'd been cold in the first place. A woman behind the counter smiled and said hello, to which Ivan nodded.

_Well, now what? _Ivan supposed it wouldn't hurt to get some tea while he was already here. Right now, it didn't matter that tea wasn't his favorite drink; this was the place he had last had a real conversation with Yao, and his heart wouldn't let him leave. In a hushed tone, Ivan ordered the same tea he and Yao had drank. When the steaming cup was offered to him, he took it wordlessly and sat down at the same table as before, next to the window.

Except this time, Yao wasn't sitting across from him.

Ivan lowered his scarf and took a sip of the tea. It was bitter, and it burned his tongue a little, but it was the tea Yao liked. Ivan shook his head, eyes closing tightly. Why did he keep thinking about Yao? Why did his every action revolve around what Yao did, or what Yao liked, or what Yao would have thought? This needed to stop. He couldn't keep doing this, he couldn't keep pining over a man who obviously wanted nothing to do with him.

After all, who wanted anything to do with a man like Ivan?

Gulping down the rest of his tea without taking the time to taste it, he stood abruptly and tightened the scarf around his neck. He was going to get out of here. He was going to go down the street and walk into that liquor store and buy enough vodka to fill _every fridge in Russia_ and drink himself into a coma. Figuring things out would come later, when enough time had passed for him to think clearly. At that time, he could think things through and get a real, firm hold on the situation, and act accordingly. It was decided.

Just as he was about to make his leave, a brown-haired man walked past Ivan's window, catching his attention. Ivan was sure he felt his heart stop for the whole thirty seconds the man outside was within his sights.

_Well, isn't this just perfect?_

Yao Wang was standing outside the window of this little tea shop on a Saturday afternoon, completely unaware of Ivan Braginski's eyes boring into the back of his skull. Yao stared across the street, waiting for the traffic to die down before crossing. What Yao was doing here, Ivan did not know. However, upon seeing the Asian once more, Ivan knew one thing.

He had to talk to Yao.

The vodka was no longer on his mind as he walked toward the door, a new determination glowing in his eyes. Even if Yao didn't want to be near him anymore, he had to know why. Ivan needed to know what he had done wrong.

And so he stepped outside, leaving an empty cup of tea standing alone on the table.

* * *

><p><em>Oh, the angst...! Anyway, here's the next, short chapter. The worst is yet to come!<em>

_Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz_


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